


Scar Tissue

by folliesandfictions



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Gen, possible body horror/unreality?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 04:38:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8608282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folliesandfictions/pseuds/folliesandfictions
Summary: I guess this is me getting out my lingering frustrations at the ME2 character creator! A quick little Shepard scene, probably occurring some time between Freedom’s Progress and Horizon.





	

It was the scars that bothered her most of all.

Shepard stood in front of the mirror, steely gaze reflected amidst the stark chrome and harsh lighting of the Normandy bathroom. She held eye contact, refusing to let her gaze waver – refusing to look at the face that wasn’t hers. It had been weeks since they had left the Cerberus facility and she had hoped time would make it easier, but every morning since she had stared into the mirror and found a stranger staring back.

The new, improved Shepard – or so they said.

The same as ever, according to Miranda.

Right now, she didn’t feel like either. Sooner or later however, she would have to face up to this. With a grim sigh Shepard lifted a hand to her face, tracing the lines and contours that were familiar but not. There had once been a sharpness to her features, the hollowness of one who had lived through things they would never wish upon another person. Those angles were softer, less pronounced; she looked almost healthier, and the realisation unnerved her. _Maybe two years sleep was exactly what I needed_ , she thought wryly.

Her eyes flicked to her cheek and quickly dropped. Apparently she wasn’t ready for this yet. Stalling, she ran a finger gently over her palm. The delicate blue latticework at her wrist led her gaze ever upward, marvelling at the intricacy of the shapes running below translucent skin. She had begun to calm when she felt a sudden resistance beneath her fingers; barely perceptible, the dull greyness belied the presence of just one of many metal plates hidden just below the skin. It was a subtle reminder of the fact that she should not be here – that whoever ‘Shepard’ was she had died with the old Normandy. She wasn’t the real thing. She couldn’t be.

With a surge of anger Shepard’s eyes darted up, finally focusing on the scars across her face. Or rather, the scars that were missing. The scars that were _her_. With a fingernail, she draw a line down across her cheekbone to the corner of her mouth. It lingered for a moment, stark white against a pinkish flush, before fading slowly as the blood rushed back. Shepard remembered the blow as though it were yesterday, diving to push her squadmate out of the way even as the thresher maw’s claw came down. She wondered – not for the first time – if she would have even survived had the creature not thrown her back so far.

The shrapnel marks across her collarbone from the Skyllian Blitz. The jagged, misshapen line just below her knee from N7 training. Hell, even the chicken pox marks in her hairline that her mother had warned her not to scratch a lifetime ago on Mindoir.

All gone. Every story, every memory, every reminder to do better next time. Every last one erased and replaced with metal and wiring that was already beginning to heal over.

She didn’t want to be perfect. She couldn’t. And yet, after everything Miranda had said, that was exactly what she had tried to make her. Something more, something greater than a person. It wasn’t a real person she had tried to reconstruct; it was a symbol of hope, and a symbol had no room for human imperfections.

_No. It’s not her fault._ She had been doing what she thought was best, and like it or not this was who Shepard was now. She couldn’t falter. She had a job to do, a crew to serve, and once again a galaxy to save. With a final glance towards those grey eyes she turned to leave the room.

Maybe tomorrow the face in the mirror would no longer be that of a stranger.


End file.
